Author: Garhart Stephenson

The day dawned softly. Pastel tones of pink, orange and gold breathed a lifelike vibrancy ever so briefly into the expanse of clouds keeping watch over adjacent mountain peaks. A rather small group of mountains, downright tiny compared to the Wind Rivers I hail from, this mass of rock protruding from the desert floor makes up for diminutive size with absolute upthrust. I thought to myself, “I could make the summit in less than an hour here”… a very, very strenuous hour. 

Morning dawned bright, clear, and crisp in western North Dakota as I fumbled through a storage box in the bed of my beaten, old two-wheel-drive Ford Ranger pick-up. It’s not much to look at, but it carries a lot for little gas money, getting me to places I love to visit. Out amongst frosted sunflowers a rooster crowed, not the barnyard variety. My pulse quickened. Somewhere further, another chimed in as if to remind the first he was still there too. Their banter reminded me of why I love this place so much. Yep, I was home, even if I don’t actually reside here.

Nebraska seems to garner less attention than its neighbors to the north and south. But that’s part of the charm. South Dakota has more pheasants, but Kansas holds more quail and the Dakotas have plenty of prairie grouse. The annual waterfowl migration passes through all four. However, Nebraska often produces good hunting for both upland birds and waterfowl simultaneously, and that’s the cherry on the sundae.

Recently someone told me that 2020 has been the strangest year ever. I added even though I spent part of my childhood along the Congo and in Sumatra, 2020 is still the strangest. Societal currents during the past eight months or so have been difficult for me to handle. Witnessing anger, depression, insanity and ideological polarity adversely affects one’s psychological well being. We have largely been stripped of our humanity and it all creates an aura of being trapped in a shrinking room. My refuge? The outdoors.